


Like Ghosts in the Snow

by handcversbruise



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Dead!Harry, Fluff and Angst, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Lilo friendship, M/M, Niall is Niall, One Night Stands, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Supernatural Elements, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Walk Of Shame, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, dick stuff, ghost!harry, graphic designer!zayn, realtor!liam, references to movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handcversbruise/pseuds/handcversbruise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Louis? Who’s Louis?”<br/>An edge of jealousy tinted his question, inexplicably so, considering he’d only first seen Liam thirty minutes ago.<br/>They were facing each other, still not quite close enough to touch, leaving Harry to wonder if Liam suspected anything about Harry’s condition.<br/>“My boss. Who are you? Are you allowed to be here? Oh god, are you like, living here illegally?” He started talking fifteen times faster than Harry ever would, making it possibly the cutest thing like, ever.<br/>Harry let out a laugh unlike any he’d had in the last three years since Lux left, a warm one that echoed slightly, and the usually below freezing temperature in the room rose a bit. Liam noticed.<br/>“Are you doing that?”</p><p>[The one where Harry's a ghost who doesn't want to cross over, Liam wants to sell the house, Louis understands, and Zayn just wants to make Niall happy.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Ghosts in the Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catholicschoolgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/gifts).



> This was originally supposed to be around 6k but then I got invested in it.
> 
> Written for [this prompt](http://fortunaforme.livejournal.com/1844.html?thread=1844#t1844). 
> 
> Thanks to Jasmine and Harry, because where would I be without you two? Probably not writing fic, which is a good or bad thing depending on whether or not you like my writing. Special thanks to Louise for putting up with my crippling feels at random points in time. 
> 
> Ghost!Harry's kind of my favorite, and this is my first time writing Liam & Harry, so this can be either really good or horrendously awful. We'll see. 
> 
> Even more special thanks to Amy, my darling, the coolest cat, the only one who'll write Bright Eyes-centric fic with me when it's 4 am and she should be asleep. One day we'll hang out together in Spain, and that same day I'll finish the fic I promised you I'd write. 
> 
> Title taken from "Vampires Will Never Hurt You" by My Chemical Romance. Also, listen to "Monsters" by Band of Horses and "Broadripple is Burning" by Margot and the Nuclear So and Sos. Because I said so.
> 
> Happy Halloween!

 [Harry's pov]

 

It was by force of habit that Harry kept up with a semi-regular “sleeping” schedule. It would be one thing if energy conservation was still important, if any of the necessary benefits of a relatively inactive nervous system applied--then it would be normal to spend eight hours of your day with your consciousness suspended.

If sleep were still important, then things like eating, personal hygiene, social interaction-- breathing--would be too. But they weren’t.

The car crash changed everything for Harry, left him suspended between heaven and hell, cursed to roam planet Earth for all eternity--or until he found what his unfinished business was, then resolved it.

Ghost business was all very dramatic.

Finding himself wrapped in a warm comforter the morning after the accident elicited a range of emotions, most of them centering around confusion. It all felt different. He could feel the heat from the material but not the material itself, there was no solid feeling of the mattress underneath him. He floated after he swung his feet to the side, hoping to search the house for Nick.

Eventually he learned it was all muscle memory, impermanent leftovers from his time alive. He didn't see Nick again.

Two days after his death, he wasn’t solid anymore. Falling through the stairs after tripping--apparently his lack of coordination transferred over to death--taught him how to control his transparency. The whole floating thing didn’t change, not that he missed walking per se, but he eventually got a more stable form, and even managed to learn how to disappear completely.

Then the book arrived.

Looking at it from afar, the Handbook for the Recently Deceased  looked a bit like a Bible. Ensuing panic aside, Harry trudged through the endless pages of small print which multiplied every time he even thought to ask a question. What had originally been a small but thick, leather bound novel tripled in size;  by the time he had been dead (or--undead) for 32 days, he had a handle on the ghost thing.

 

 

 

Little Lux was the only member of the family who actively acknowledged Harry's presence when they moved into the house. She was brilliant, even as young as she was, but not enough to remind Harry of all the things he had forgotten. Her lackadaisical yet accepting approach to Harry’s unexplained existence in her new home was hardly a deterrent to his plan to get them all out.

It wasn't a loud anger he felt towards the intruders--no, he had accepted his death--but it was new, and scary, and thrilling to discover that he could scare people. The Handbook had taught him how to change his form into something more dismembered, to dislocate joints without the fear of any pain.

 

Two days of cowering in the corner of his room led to flickering lights throughout the house.

A week led to door slamming, whispering song lyrics in the air so that they would flow through the air until they reached an unsuspecting victim.

A month had Harry throwing picture frames, chairs, anything he could get his mind on. (He may not have been able to touch anything with his hands, his body, but if he had ever been as close minded as to think being a ghost didn't have perks--perks like a connection to his environment so strong that his mood could affect it--he sure had learned.)

Still the family stayed, laughed his attempts away, sitting together in the living room watching a movie.

But he wouldn’t give up.

 

 

 

All it took to chase Lou Teasdale and Tom Atkin out of his house was for them to find semi-corporeal Harry Styles sitting down next to their precious, blonde haired baby, Lux. She was giggling, throwing her teacups at him, watching as they all passed right through him and hit the wall on the other side.

It was utterly ridiculous the way her shrieks echoed through the pink room full of stuffed animals and posters of 90’s bands she had no way of knowing, as Harry stuck his tongue out, smiling so hard his left dimple showed, feeling more alive than he had in far too long.

Maybe it was a little weird to walk in on their daughter chatting it up with a ghost, but Harry hadn’t even tried to scare her--just them--so all the insults Lou spouted at him, her nearly white blonde hair shaking everywhere as she tried to hit him, were completely unwarranted. Being a ghost was becoming second nature to him. There were times when he felt more powerful than ever, times when he knew Lou was afraid to even open the door to his room (the last one on the left side of the hallway on the second floor, not that she knew it was his, just that there was something about it keeping her away), saw the fear in Tom’s eyes whenever Lux mentioned hearing someone singing outside her door at night.

But ghost life was lonely and being kicked out of humanity to be sentenced to limbo wasn’t exactly fun all the time.

If ghosts could cry, Harry would have been a bawling mess.

He vanished himself to the attic for three days. The family was gone by the time he came out.

 

 

 

[Liam’s pov]

 

He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t shaking, not even close to being sick, no. Liam was simply excited. Tomlinson Realtors was a top rated up-and-coming agency in London, given nothing but praise and high expectations by everyone in the business, and this was Liam’s first job after passing all the exams needed for his license. He straightened up his gray pinstripe tie (the one his father may or may not have bought him specifically for his first real day of work), faux leather briefcase in hand, and walked in.

If success had a distinctive smell, he thinks that’s what the office would smell of. Okay, maybe it was just the air freshener plugged into the outlet by his desk on the first floor, but there was no denying everything about Tomlinson Realtors reeked of prosperity--including Louis Tomlinson himself.

Hardly older than Liam, Louis was a charming man who had climbed his way to the top of the social charts, using his past stint on a semi-professional football team to lure clients in. His first house had sold to David Beckham, someone who Louis described as inspiration for his way of life (whatever that means), and his list of impressive customers grew from there.

Liam had only met him once before, had been completely enamored with the way his blue eyes seemed more colorful than the ocean when he laughed, embarrassingly obsessed with the rich melody of his voice--even going so far as to zone out during a particularly long interview question that he had to hear three times before he could gasp out a reply. But Louis had called him three days after his disaster of an interview citing Liam had potential, that Liam could fit in with the top dogs of realty despite his lack of backbone (which was more his comment than Louis’ but true nonetheless), and that if Liam wanted, he could start the upcoming Monday.

A pretty girl with dark wavy hair named Eleanor, who he recognized as Louis’ assistant, had led him to his desk, handing him some preliminary paperwork to look over for his first assignment before mentioning Louis had asked Liam meet him in his office at 10 am to talk business. By the time he had settled in, it was 9:50 am, giving him just enough time to find his way to the semi secluded second story corner office with the plaque “Louis Tomlinson, Head of Management Operations” posted on it.

Right hand shaking as he shaped it into a fist before bringing it to knock on the door, Liam's mind went into overdrive trying to figure out what exactly Louis could want from him.

"Come in!"

Two moments is what it took for him to open the thick wooden door to the office but a seemingly endless amount of scenarios, mostly ones where Liam's begging for forgiveness, filled his mind. Confidence was never Liam's strong point.

Gulping down his nerves, he returned Louis' smile.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Tomlinson?" Casual yet formal. A small bit of relief washed over him. Potential, after all, was something people said he had.

The loud squeak from a chair spinning to let Louis  stand up burst his self congratulatory bubble, thrusted him back to the moment, all too intensely reminding him just what this moment held for his future.

A warm hand pressed onto his shoulder, guiding him towards a leather chair in front of the desk that had been decorated with picture frames, stacks of papers, folders, even a cup of tea from Starbucks. Glancing around the room, Liam took in just how much  Louis there was. It was there in the posters, pictures with past clients, the professional shots of him playing football. The degrees and certificates reassured Liam (but how could anyone ever doubt Louis?) of how much was expected of him, of Louis.  It seemed like this young man gave everything about himself away for everyone to see, momentarily stunning Liam; he was floored by the force with which Louis drove himself, his business, like the two were connected and he was adding Liam to the mix just by letting him in.

It should have overwhelmed him. There’s no reason why it didn’t. But the more he relaxed into the too comfortable to have been easily affordable chair, the more he found himself answering Louis' questions without hesitation, even going so far as to partake in a bit of banter.

Instead of sitting behind the desk, Louis sat on top of it.  He grinned at Liam, rubbed his hands together, before reaching over into the pile of messy folders and picking one at random. Well, it seemed random.

"You're new here,  Li, can I call you that? Here at Tomlinson Realtors, I want everyone to feel comfortable, to be friendly,  but professional."

Somehow being friends with his boss struck him as all sorts of unprofessional, but he nodded along anyway.

"Anyway, moving on. There's a way we go about selling property here. It's not about making money--though there's a bit of that involved, if you're lucky" wink, "no. It's about knowing the place and knowing who to sell it to."

Well, yeah. Liam knew that much, at least. Obviously he wasn't going to show a family of five some 2 bedroom flat in a crap neighborhood. Liam was ditzy but he wasn't entirely daft.

"Yes, sir?" It came out like a question rather than a solid statement. Louis said nothing about it.

"I want you to take this folder and get to know the house well. Visit the place, note down what needs to be fixed, painted--anything less than perfect."

He could do that.

"Now go on, back to your desk! I'll have El send over some forms for you to fill out too. This is a hard job!"

Louis laughed at the last part of his dismissal, almost involuntarily inciting one in response from Liam. With an overly enthusiastic wave, he was on his way back to work.

 

 

 

Liam had never been the type of person to believe in the supernatural. He grew up with sisters that he loved to scare with ridiculous ghost stories that he deemed too nonsensical to be true. But the way the sun’s reflected on the windows, casting strange shadows on the walls of the parlor, along with the faint whispers he hoped were tricks played by the wind, had him reevaluating his anti-supernatural ideologies.

London was no stranger to cold November weather and Liam’s outfits mostly consisted of warm sweaters and jeans, though he’d been trying to impress at work lately, throwing in a blazer and a few khaki’s to the mix. Yet several layers of warm clothing and a scarf fell short inside building.

From the outside, the two story structure was normal enough-- if a little rundown--with large windows showing the space that was once someone’s living room. The previous owners had left most of their furniture, according to Louis they’d been in a rush to evacuate the premises, but that was years ago and lack of cleaning had left a thick layer of dirt accumulate on every foreseeable surface.

After setting his bags down on the tiled floor of the kitchen, Liam pulled out his notepad, a loud breath escaping him as he began to mark down all the things Louis would need to fix to make this house habitable once more.

 

 

 

[Harry’s pov]

 

If Harry were in a Star Wars movie, he’d say he felt a great disturbance in the force when someone entered his house. There were footsteps coming from the living room, the fresh scent of life trickling in after him. Harry hadn’t had interaction with humans (or even seen them, save for a few kids who sometimes trespassed onto the grounds after school) since Lux and her family had left.

He kept busy enough so that he didn’t miss them. The days and nights were uneventful, usually consisting of reading the daily Handbook updates, which he often compared to a kind of Twitter for the dead, sometimes practising the tricks it suggested for becoming solid. The Handbook said it was possible if he focused enough, wanted it enough. He didn’t. He avoided the topic of dealing with his unfinished business.

Sometimes he wished for someone to talk to. At some point during his time as part of the undead, he’d become broody and whiny, something unlike his human self, where he’d been happy, cheeky, never as quiet as he was now.

Passing through his room’s wooden door without bothering to open it, he decided to stand at the top of the stairs to check out the situation. (Opening things without touching them still made him feel unreal, like his existence was ephemeral, which maybe it was supposed to be but he wasn’t ready to leave yet; not quite here but not gone. It was weird.)

The intruder was gorgeous, maybe a little awkward with the way he was bent over a notepad, scribbling down something. He had short brown hair, not at all what Harry usually went for, but his sweater was tight enough to highlight defined muscles, and he was humming a song by The Ramones; it had been one of Harry’s favorites back when he was alive and Saturday nights were spent on the couch with Nick, vinyl  after vinyl playing all night long.

Before he died, Harry spoke constantly, despite his honey-slow speech patterns that caused some of his friends to shove his arm and tell him to just get on with it. After his death, the need to communicate orally was gone, replaced with thoughts and emotions his environment somehow understood and responded to.

This boy wasn’t a part of that though, he was real and alive, singing one of Harry’s favorite songs not ten feet away from him, and no matter how many times he’d told himself he didn’t miss talking, he did.

“I like that song.”

His voice was rough and raspy from lack of use, maybe as a side effect of his death, definitely not loud enough for the boy in the room to hear from the top of the stairs. The four words rang in his ears, repeating themselves over and over, until Harry was tempted to try and pull his hair out with how dumb they sounded. They didn’t get his guest’s attention, but he doesn’t think he was trying to.

Gliding down the stairs proved to be simple, silent as ever, as Harry remembered how Lux’s parents never saw him except the time he was forcibly making himself known, because they never paid attention to anything outside their own thoughts. This person was probably like them, too caught up in himself to analyze the obvious signs Harry threw around, writing it off as creepy due to abandonment, but knowing something was there. No one’s ever been looking to find Harry, and he thinks that would hurt if he were alive, but nothing’s hurt since then.

The boy smelled of Polo Red by Ralph Lauren. He sat on the dirty couch in the living room, occasionally getting up to inspect a corner or tap on a wall. The song of choice must have been something new because Harry didn’t recognize it, even though he had a working radio upstairs, but he liked the way his lips moved around to form the words, and his voice was like nothing Harry had ever heard before.

Saying a silent prayer of “I hope I’m not visible enough for this”, Harry moved across the hall until he was almost in the room, narrowly avoiding the furniture. It wouldn’t hurt to trip over it, probably would just pass right through him, but it might mess up his path and lead to a collision, something he just didn’t have the energy for.

The man kept singing, now an old Justin Timberlake song, and Harry made out his wide brown eyes--he thinks they could take his breath away if the situation were different. There’s an urge there, to touch, to feel the texture of his hair under Harry’s hand, but even if he were close enough, it would be impossible. It frustrated him to not even be able to remember what contact with another person felt like.

Harry died at age nineteen, mostly immature and childish. It showed when he got angry now, because the house responded in ways he couldn’t control even if he knew how to. Constant anger, confusion, irritation all escaped him , in a moment of weakness. A high-pitched shriek echoed through the house, windows opening and closing, doors slamming, flickering lights despite no electricity running through the wires--practically a scene from a bad children’s movie Harry just caused, and the man’s jolted out of place looking like he’s just seen a ghost.

(Harry knew he hadn’t, because his eyes had yet to wander over to the hallway where he was.)

Panicked is the only way to describe how he looked around the room, slightly out of breath, until he turned around to face the rest of the house, which happened to be where Harry stood. Harry settled down by then. The house did too.

His body shook as he took a step towards Harry, and Harry felt like he was suffocating. The irony in that was not lost on him, no matter how distracting the boy’s muscular thighs were as he walked.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

His voice was something like music to Harry’s ears, if he could blush he’d be more red than a tomato, but that’s impossible, so obviously the lights in the hallway turned on, and the radio in his room started to blast music.

Embarrassing.

For a moment he entertained the idea of just vanishing, leaving this unnamed visitor in a wave of confusion. He decided against it, even if it’s just because he’s very, very, good looking.  (Death had done nothing to stop his dirty mind, unfortunately.)

He gave a shy smile before answering. “Hi, I’m Harry.”

The roughness in his voice changed to something more nervous. Harry Styles, the nervous ghost. He could see the movie starring Christina Ricci already. The ground was easier to focus on, instead of the questioning glances the person standing in the middle of the room was throwing at him, while he tried to remain calm.

Five years ago, Harry had been alive too, he had had blood in his veins, a heartbeat. He usually didn’t let himself reminisce but there was something about being face to face with someone else that reminded him of all the things he didn’t have anymore.

“Do you live here? Do you work for Mr. Tomlinson? Maybe he told you I was coming by to inspect the house, I’m Liam.”

Liam was probably Harry’s new favorite name. He’d never heard of Tomlinson but if Liam’s job was inspecting his house, that meant someone wanted to move in.

That couldn’t happen. Not again.

Harry rarely had moments where he was mean but this house was the last thing he could call his own--he had even died on the way back to it--and the only way he’d ever let someone else live here, would be if he died and stayed dead.

“No. I live here.”

Images of puppies flashed through his head because if Harry let his real feelings show, something would end up crashing on top of Liam’s gorgeous head.

Liam gave a look of confusion towards Harry, all too aware of the distance between them.

“No--you can’t? This house has been abandoned for 3 years, I think, Louis said--”

“Louis? Who’s Louis?”

An edge of jealousy tinted his question, inexplicably so, considering he’d only first seen Liam thirty minutes ago.

They were facing each other, still not quite close enough to touch, leaving Harry to wonder if Liam suspected anything about Harry’s condition.

“My boss. Who are you? Are you allowed to be here? Oh god, are you like, living here illegally?” He started talking fifteen times faster than Harry ever would, making it possibly the cutest thing like, ever.

Harry let out a laugh unlike any he’d had in the last three years since Lux left, a warm one that echoed slightly, and the usually below freezing temperature in the room rose a bit. Liam noticed.

“Are you doing that?”

When Harry was seven years old, he’d broken his mom's favorite vase by playing footie with Nick inside the house. He’d cleaned up the broken glass quickly but ruined two of her hand towels in his attempt to wipe the water off the carpet. When Anne had asked what happened, he had tried to lie before the stern look she gave him had him feeling guilty enough to cry. He confessed shortly thereafter.

He’d never been the type to lie, but he wasn’t ready to admit the truth to Liam and see him run screaming out of the house. It would have been possible for him to lie if Liam hadn’t given him the world’s most irresistible puppy dog eyes. Damn it.  He shrugged.

“Yeah.”

Rather than meeting Liam’s gaze and seeing the look of awe plastered on it, Harry vanished from the hallway back to the room he called his. He hovered off the ground near his door in a butterfly position--a half assed experiment at meditation--and closed his eyes.

“Get out of here. Now.”

It came out like a whisper, voice shaky, but the house amplified it for him, adding the hint of a threat he wasn’t sure he wanted.

Liam didn’t run out screaming. A few shutter sounds later, Harry heard the front door close. He felt more alone than before.

 

 

 

[Liam’s pov]

 

Liam was 85% sure he’d just seen a ghost.

By the time he’d driven back to the office after inspecting most of the front of the house, he’d run out of logical explanations. The voices in the back of his head threw unlikely theories at him, the most extravagant one being his coworker Andy putting drugs in his lunch, which then caused him to hallucinate the entire afternoon. There were no such things as ghosts, especially not curly haired, green eyed, skinny jean wearing ones.

The parking lot was nearly empty, most of the employees having gone out for drinks with Louis, an idea that was suddenly all too appealing, despite his “no alcohol” policy. His grip on the steering wheel turned his knuckles white, still shaking slightly from his earlier encounter. Drugs or ghosts, both left him more upset than anything else.

There was no way he could ever mention this to Louis. He wanted his boss to like him, and something told Liam that casually mentioning a haunted house might be a bit much--even for Louis.

The whole thing had played out like a scene from a bad Disney movie, loud noises and all. If he’s honest, which he usually is, he’d been scared by everything but Harry. Harry was cute.

It took Liam ten minutes of sitting in silence in the parking lot (and three calls from his mom) for him to decide he’d have to go back, just to see if Harry was real.

He just didn’t know what to do if he was.

 

 

 

Liam gave himself two days before returning to the house. He’d dreamt of soft brown curls and plaid shirts hanging from long limbs, feet that never touched the ground then disappeared like magic.

He’d impressed Louis with his initial observations and ideas on how to save them money on renovations, somehow working his way into a staff meeting with the Vice President of the Board, a man named Stan Lucas who happened to be the only person besides Louis who could make or break his future.

Yet despite the significance of the meeting, Liam was bored out of  his fucking mind. He dozed off until Stan and Louis walked up to him afterwards.

“Liam, let me formally introduce you to my best mate, Stan.” The two were shoving each other playfully, smiling at Liam.

Stan held a hand out as he greeted him. “Hello Liam! I hear Louis’ got you working on a haunted house.”

“Shut up, Stan. That house is fine.”

“There’s a reason no one’s ever gotten past the front door mate, and it’s not the dust. There’s a bloody demon running around inside.”

Liam glared at Stan. He had no reason to believe Harry was a demon, no, he was just a ghost. A friendly one, even. Sort of. Not a demon, Liam had watched enough Paranormal Activity movies to know the difference.

“S’all right really, the ghost’s a fit bloke.”

He hadn’t actually meant to say that, but the looks he got from his bosses let him know they appreciated his joke. Maybe he was joking, on some level, but the memory of Harry’s pale green eyes (he thought the only thing they were missing was life) made him feel warm all over.

 

 

 

[Harry’s pov]

 

Staring out the window, checking every time a car drove past the area in hopes of it being Liam, whining to the inanimate objects that surrounded him scarcely counted as pining. In fact, the encounter with the realtor was all but forgotten. Besides, Harry had a type--tall, blonde, beautiful--and Liam didn’t quite fit it.

The Handbook unsurprisingly offered no advice. Apparently “attraction to humans” wasn’t a priority; part of Harry tossed aside the entire exchange, having convinced himself it was a one time thing. Desperation came to mind. After all, Harry hadn’t seen any relative attractive people for 1,826 days. Not that he’d been counting.

 

 

 

On the days when the sun hid behind gray clouds, the radio always found a station that happened to be blasting Old Time Rock & Roll--he may or may not have had a thing for reenacting a certain scene from Risky Business, okay?

He’d fly from room to room, crash through the walls and created clouds of dust. The furniture moved with him, hovered near the ceiling as he sang and gave a truly horrible air guitar performance. The whole thing was a ridiculous sight but it gave Harry something fun to do. For those few minutes, he felt alive again.

“You have a really nice voice.”

Too caught up in the music, he hadn’t heard the door open. The smile in Liam’s voice caught him off guard, apprehension taking over Harry’s thoughts which in turn led to the furniture crashing back down to the ground.

“For a ghost.”

In an act of extreme maturity, Harry swooped down from the ceiling until he was face to face with Liam. He stuck his tongue out,  something very similar to a wah escaped his lips.

“Well you’ve got a nice face for a human.”

It sounded like an insult to him, maybe, sort of, at some point. The radio shut itself off too. Harry’s horrible comeback hung in the air, but Liam’s laughter felt like sunshine, something he only vaguely recalled, and that made the embarrassment worthwhile.

Liam stood in the doorway, wore jeans that fell between too tight and not tight enough, a fitted black button down dressing up his otherwise casual attire, something Harry never would have worn when he was alive given his propensity for plaid shirts and skinny jeans, save the occasional blazer for a formal event. And there was Liam, nothing pretentious about him, posing in the entrance like some sort of model.

“So--can I come in?”

 

 

 

Time lost all meaning for Harry, became a thing that no longer mattered. No alarm clocks necessary, no set schedule to do anything by a certain time. No time meant freedom, in a way, because having all the time in the world also meant you didn’t have any. Harry liked it. But then three hours had passed and Liam blabbered some silly excuse before sputtering out that he had to go. The two had spent the afternoon in the living room, Liam alternating between laying down on the couch and the ground, flipping mindlessly through tv channels (not letting himself think about how that shouldn’t even be possible--not without any electricity), a valiant effort on his part to keep away the dust with a blanket that only made Harry kick the dirt around more.

He paid attention to the way Liam overcompensated to mask his apprehension, not that Harry could blame him at all since the situation belonged in a made for tv Lifetime Halloween movie, something like fondness and pride swelling up inside of him when Liam joked back with him. Liam was friendly, funny and easy to talk, to once they found some common ground.

“Don’t you get tired?”

Liam tilted his head towards Harry who floated in mid air, legs folded underneath him, a huge smile plastered on his face.

It faltered a bit because Liam hadn’t asked any questions before this though there was genuine curiosity in his tone, and how could Harry ignore that?

“It doesn’t hurt or anything.”

He shifted into a butterfly position, winked in Liam’s direction.

“I’m very bendy.”

Liam went completely red, but his lips remained pressed into a straight line.

“Do you feel anything, at all?”

Harry tensed at that. He had emotions, he thought, they bubbled up inside of him, built like a pressure that begged to be released, instead Harry shoved them into the corners of his mind, refusing to let them out. Things like jealousy, hunger, loneliness--those had become secondary and useless after death, though they were memories floating around his head, just faded.

“I have feelings.” He caught Liam’s eyes, ignoring the look he was getting, speaking slowly, carefully, “But I don’t sense, don’t feel things, in that way.”

Liam looked sad at that.

“Hey, c’mon now! It’s fine. Can’t complain when I’m not getting older.”

Liam laid down on the sofa, taking up the entire space, reminiscent of how Nick used to tease Harry and make him sit on the chair on the other side, and Harry cringed at that because Liam wasn’t Nick. He turned to face Harry, still wrapped up in the graying blanket, furrowed brows and hurt eyes saying more than Harry wanted to listen to.

“Eventually everyone you’ve loved will be dead. Have you even seen them since the accident?”

Harry could tell by the way Liam shivered that he’d felt the temperature drop, like it usually did when Harry got upset.

Liam just sighed before continuing.

“You were so young, Harry, you must’ve had plans! Dreams, a family, a girlfriend--”

“Boyfriend.”

“Whatever. You had a life--”

“And now I don’t,” he snapped. This was not a conversation he wanted to have, like ever.

He knew Liam told only the truth, that deep down there was still resentment at having lost his life so early, the what ifs still haunted him at times, but none of that gave Liam any right to say it, not when Liam demanded so much from life, from him, lacked any sort of bitterness or experience with disappointment. Liam couldn’t understand.

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” Liam began, “but it’s sad. You said you had feelings, and feelings are more than just instinct, they come from your mood. I can’t begin to imagine the pain that comes with hiding yours so well.”

Harry gaped at Liam as he walked out but said nothing.

 

 

 

[Liam’s pov]

 

Following his last disastrous meeting with Harry, Louis sent Liam a message--via Eleanor--to see him in his office.

Louis greeted him like an old friend, an enthusiastic “Liam!” and a warm embrace eased him into the meeting.

“Yes, sir?”

“There’s a potential buyer for the manor! A young couple, recently recognized for something successful, in the arts I think. They’re flying down from Ireland in about 16 days. Have everything prepared.”

 

 

 

“Have you ever left the house?” He’s just finished his third beer, tossed a handful of M&M’s at Harry, laughing like a little kid as each one fell to the floor, no resistance from Harry at all.

Liam was a bit mesmerized by the way Harry’s curls bounced as he shook his head “no” but saying so would allow Harry to make fun of him, so he opted for throwing another candy, harder this time, only to have a giggling Harry throw it back at his head without so much as lifting an arm.

He scrunched up his nose at Liam, and Liam’s lips turned up at that.

“I tried once, a while back. I got scared, felt like it wasn’t quite right, but nothing’s stopping me I suppose. There were noises coming from everywhere, think the Handbook says it’s something to do with leftover energy, from other dead folk, and like people could see me but they didn’t want to. Was all a bit too weird for me. I only made it out for twenty minutes before vanishing myself back home.”

Sometimes Liam still had trouble believing this was his life.

He’d come back to the building because he had to--hurt ghost or not, he had a job to do. After the third day of Liam cleaning out the attic, Harry’d come down to help, or tried to, got the materials to move but when Liam flashed him a smile, crinkly eyed and cheery, Harry lost control. Or so that’s what he told Liam, who thought it might be more of Harry’s lack of coordination.

One day he’d brought biscuits in case he got hungry while supervising the people doing construction on the outer parts of the property, considered for a minute that he shouldn’t be there every afternoon when there was more work to do at the office. But paperwork bored him endlessly (he stopped saying “to death” after Harry shot him an unamused look and literally ran through him, leaving him cold and empty, much like what Harry described as dying), he typed the same email over and over again, bending over backwards to find the right homes--not houses, homes--for people with too much money and not enough ways to spend it. So the next day he did the same, only this time it was cinnamon rolls and that was that.

Liam found something he’d been missing--fun. Save the times Liam’d shoved his foot in his mouth, Harry provided that. Liam learned that Harry liked weird music that sounded more like a cat banging on a piano, drove him mad with the way Harry would pop up out of nowhere, asked things like “Liam, do you think tulips are sentient beings?”, yet somehow radiated more life than anyone he’d ever known.

 

 

 

The first time it happened was ten days before Mr. Zayn Malik and Niall Horan were scheduled to be shown around the house. Perhaps he’d had too many beers, dizzy with the stress of his first real upcoming sale, or maybe he just wanted to, but he’d spent the entire day with Harry and then--

“You can’t do that.”

The wooden floor left marks on his face, it stung a lot, and he contemplated staying face down for the rest of his life. Instead he stood up, groaning slightly, a few small cuts bleeding on his chin.

“You want to kiss me?”

If Liam were cool, he’d shrug off the question, smirk in Harry’s direction and say something about cute boys.

He blushed.

“Yeah.”

Harry coughed. “That’s, uh, that’s bad.”

Sometimes, knowing something’s coming doesn’t make it hurt less.

“Sorry, I’ll just leave.”

Harry reached for his arm, frowning when it did nothing to stop him.

“Liam--I’m dead.”

“Yeah.” Liam might stop by a bookstore later, buy a dictionary to improve his vocabulary.

“I want to kiss you too.”

 

 

 

If Liam hadn’t shown up with dark circles under his eyes, pleading for forgiveness before giving out a reason to need one, it’d be safe to assume Harry would have gone psycho ghost on him, dragged him up the stairs to the attic and locked him there.

As it turned out, in nine days, he would be showing off Harry’s house to a “lovely young couple, Haz, please understand,” and needed cooperation.

“I won’t leave.”

Liam gave a hum of agreeance, sat down on the ground outside Harry’s room on the second floor, felt all too ridiculous to be talking through the wall when it did little to stop Harry from passing through.

“No one’s asking you to, Harry.”

“The house is mine.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll run them out of here.”

Another deep sigh. He could practically taste the oncoming headache. “They could keep you company.”

Usually, Liam loved the way Harry laughed, the way it wrapped him up and made him smile along. But not tonight.

“I don’t need company.”

Alright so maybe Liam was pissed off now. “You need something.”

“I don’t need you!”

 

The window next to Liam almost broke with the intensity of the tantrum the house threw, courtesy of Harry Styles’ childish mood swings.

Liam gave up, relenting to give it a try another day.

He reached the door when he heard Harry, whispering from somewhere in the house. “Are you going to visit me when this is all done?” He walked out.

  


 

 

[Harry’s pov]

 

Something told Harry that letting Liam in again would be a bad idea, but he’d shown up with a Mancala, and well, board games were his one true weakness. It ended up with Liam moving his pieces for him, while Harry accused him of playing dirty (“Liam! How do you even cheat at this game?!”), scaring him into acknowledging Harry as the winner with a loud growl that rang throughout the house.

They settled in to watch an old episode of Doctor Who on the television, Liam on the sofa while Harry poised himself like a cat on top of Liam’s shoulder. He liked being with Liam, more than he should honestly, the interaction was good, even if they were more like oil and water than anything made to mix.

In the middle of Four’s latest kooky adventure, unfortunately timed as Liam took a sip from his drink, he threw a cushion at Liam to get his attention.

“Ow Haz what the--”

“Did you know it’s possible for us to materialize as solid?”

Liam choked on his drink. “Uh.”

Harry simply stuck his tongue out. “It’s not like, easy or anything, or permanent. The Handbook says it’s to help us either scare away houseguests or fulfill our unfinished business.”

“I see. What’s your unfinished business?”

He rolled his eyes. “Not the point, Liam.”

“But you could finally--”

“Be gone for good, yeah, and you could sell the house no problem and make money, I fucking know.”

Harry focused back to the show, too aware of Liam’s hesitancy to continue the conversation. He was always too aware of Liam. They didn’t speak for another thirty minutes, a comfortable silence took over them.

“Harry, I don’t want you to leave for good.”

He bit his cheek, which didn’t hurt at all and did nothing to hide his smirk.

“Would you want me to touch you, Liam?” he deadpanned. Harry wasn’t sure what he meant, but it wasn’t a seductive question.

“Uh. What?”

A casual expression on his face and tone, he gave Liam a small smile, as encouragement. “If I could, I mean.”

Friends discussed things like this all the time, right? Liam kept quiet.

Time for another tactic.

“I see the way you look at me.”

Liam very intently stared at the television as Harry shifted to face him head on.

“It’s okay. I wanna touch you too.”

 

 

 

When he’d come back to life in the form of a spirit, Harry never expected to like someone, the fact that it was a human whose sole purpose was to sell the one thing that kept him grounded only made it worse. But what upset him the most was his death.

Nick and Harry dated until Harry realized he couldn’t love someone like him, not for any real reason though he was an asshole on a good day. They lived together in the house with two other people while they were in uni, and no matter how much Harry hated it, he stayed with Nick out of convenience.

The night of the car crash, Harry had been planning to go out with a girl named Taylor. He’d lost track of time and was late when Nick texted him that something had happened, the house had been broken in to, though he suspected it was one of their other roommates.  A car collided with his on the right side but he didn’t die instantly. He suffocated en route to the hospital, something about his esophagus being crushed.

Liam reminded him of Nick in that he was the opposite. It was nice because Liam was nice, but no matter what, Harry would be dead forever, too scared to turn to the section of the Handbook that would let him finally rest in peace.

 

[Liam’s pov]

 

He recalled at least five romantic comedies he’d forced his sisters to watch with him as he drove to Harry’s house at midnight after their awkward admittance of mutual attraction. If that’s what it was. Liam had tried to sleep, to force the thoughts of Harry out of his mind, instead they turned to something different, something new, and the image of Harry on his knees in front of Liam wouldn’t get the fuck out and made him feel guilty with how much his body wanted it. Rather than overthinking everything, he got into his car, sped the entire way down the now familiar route, knocking as violently as possible.

In retrospect, that was a dumb idea. LIam’s knuckles stung, red and bruised. Harry held no shame as he mocked Liam, opened the door with a look that said he had been waiting for Liam.

“There’s nothing I would like more than to hold you.”

His voice cracked, came out scared and unsteady, but he was sure what he said was true, and maybe Harry did too because he signaled for Liam to join him in the living room, where a late night Three’s Company marathon was on the television. After the first episode, the one where Chrissy decided to set up a meeting with her secret admirer, he grabbed a cold beer from the fridge; he’d come to think of this as somewhere he belonged, left little parts of him around and Harry never said anything about it, and that’s how Liam wanted it.

He slid down to the floor, next to Harry, the cold air that surrounded his friend was something he’d gotten used to by now though it never failed to remind him that he was hanging out with a ghost.

Harry sat beside him, loose and comfortable, as he paid attention to the screen. If Liam were a more romantic person, he’d compare this moment to seeing him for the first time. The light reflected in his eyes, a substitute for the life that was missing, an emerald green that was nothing short of breathtaking; if you asked Liam what his favorite color was he’d say it was Harry’s eyes. Not to mention the mop of brown curls or the dimples, even the stupid fedoras he’d occasionally manifest and force Liam to wear--every part of Harry was Liam’s favorite.

“I have curly hair too, or did. I cut it.” He gulped down his beer, hoped Harry wouldn’t mind the random conversation too much.

Liam fixated on Harry’s lips, enthralled by the way they lifted upwards, the way they shaped around his words. “Why’d you cut it?”

The tv sounded more like white noise now.

“Hmm. Started a new job, a new life. It felt right.”

Harry laughed because of course he would. Laughing at Liam was probably his second favorite thing.

“I bet you’d have liked me pulling your long hair.”

“Excuse me?”

No reply.

They settled back to watch the show, now an I Love Lucy’s episode, but the mood had changed, now charged with something neither of them could explain or do anything to fix.

“D’you think about me?”

His breath hitched, suddenly all tongue tied because this was Harry. “I’m here all the time, aren’t I?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” A beat. “I found the downside to being a ghost, Liam.”

Liam blinked and Harry was in front of him, pulling a frowny face that had him beaming against his will because sometimes Harry was just so goddamn cute.

“Being condemned to Earth for eternity or until you face your fears?”

Shrug. He couldn’t resist.

“No, you buzzkill.”

Something like victory ran through him.

“Not being able to fuck.”

It probably shouldn’t have turned Liam on to hear those words come out of Harry, but well, he was human and the only reason he’d even gone over to the house was because of a rather inappropriate dream involving those luscious red lips and certain unspeakable acts but wait--was this even physically possible?

“Lay down on the couch, Li.”

About fifty voices screamed at him just how bad of an idea this was--not that he even knew what happened. He complied, a bit like being under the Imperius curse, relinquishing total control over to Harry, trying to convince himself that this was a dream, a vivid one, that in real life ghosts didn’t seduce boring humans like Liam.

It was like--Harry was everywhere. Liam sensed him on his skin when a light breeze blew by, the hairs on his arm standing at attention, as if they were waiting for Harry to close the gap between them, and just grab him. He shivered almost expectantly, still no word from Harry explaining why he was laying down.

“What now, Haz?” Liam quipped, voice full of nerves and hesitance. But Harry remained calm, humming in reply, tracing the space around Liam--so close to touching but not. It would never be enough, not really.

And yeah--this could escalate quickly, or go nowhere. Liam just had to let go.

“Can ghosts even--”

“Pretty sure that’s for me to worry ‘bout, not you.”

“But--”

“Liam, shut the fuck up and tell me what you want me to do.”

“You can’t do anything.”

“If I could.”

It’s not like he’d never done anything with anyone before. There’d been Danielle, Andy, and a string of countless others, none of them meaning half as much as Harry, a ridiculous fact when you took Harry’s death into account. And it’s then that Liam realized, truly understood, that even if he learned to materialize, it would never be permanent.

  
“Why’d you come over so late?”

Harry’s voice dropped down to a whisper, and it was a little awkward how he just hung there in the air, almost like he was on top of Liam except for the fact that he was weightless, more like mist than anything else. Liam glanced over his shoulder to get a better look at him and--

  
The light from outside was highlighting the undertones of his hair, bouncing off of his cheeks only to illuminate the radiant green of his eyes, his face soft but almost hungry, nibbling at his bottom lip as his eyes took in all of Liam. It was almost too much. Almost. Liam felt the beginnings of arousal warm his body.

  
A smirk crept up Harry's face as Liam locked eyes with Harry, his mind racing so fast it seemed to slow down completely, he gulped down his fears and let himself have this.

  
“I wanted you.”

  
Harry beamed at him, fingers levitating over Liam’s arm as he settled himself close enough to whisper in his ear. It was like--they fit. He was taller and slimmer than Liam, Liam more muscular, and Harry had larger hands, a thing Liam enjoyed thinking about, caused him to adjust himself in his jeans a bit.

  
Too quick for him to figure out how the fuck it happened, his shirt was ripped off him. He huffed out a protest, panic coating his eyes but turning into disbelief at the sight of a giggling Harry.

  
“It’s a ghost thing? For scaring purposes.”

  
“Fuck, Harry! Yo--”

  
“That’s what I’m trying to do, babe.” he purred in Liam’s ear and, well. True.

 

[Harry’s pov]

 

Liam laid out in front of him, breaths coming in uneven, biting his lower lip as he waited for Harry to make the next move. Harry ached, the urge to lay his fingers on every part of Liam consumed him.

Maybe this proved something, that despite his lack of heartbeat he still had some humanity, wasn’t a monster in a children’s bedtime story.

Something like a moan came from Liam and yeah, not the right time to analyze himself.

He smirked at Liam.

“Think of it as like.. phone sex, yeah? Only you get to see me!” he flashed a smile, took in the way Liam let out a strangled "yeah" as he began to palm himself through his boxers.

It would hardly satisfy any of the things Harry craved but--beggars can’t be choosers.

He watched as Liam unzipped his jeans, got himself more comfortable. Harry wanted it, probably more than anything else, because Liam was beautiful and his in a strange impermanent way. Hopeful glances told Harry it was mutual, that life and death had thrown them together for a reason and--

Warmth. The only thoughts in Harry’s mind centered around Liam, how somehow his smell had taken over his home, the way Liam still looked a little lost when Harry playfully threw things at him, how his hand motions mattered as much as his words when he told stories about his past--it was all Liam and all want, desire, Harry needed to mark him as his own before it all ended.

Harry reached for Liam's hand, moved to cover it with his own, expecting his to pass right through, leaving Liam a cold, shivering wreck.

Only Liam was warm, and Harry felt his breath against his neck and he wasn't floating anymore.

"Harry? What's happening?"

Harry saw the confusion in Liam's eyes, lifted his hand up to Liam’s jaw, the feel of his stubble--his skin--lit a fire inside Harry, full blown grin plastered on his face as he leaned in to close the gap. Their noses bumped into each other, awkward and clumsy until Liam shifted, climbing on top of Harry. Harry's eyes were full of that spark Liam had always known was missing.

"Let's just enjoy it, yeah?"

He was fairly certain he would never get this chance again. Liam relaxed against him, smiled into the crook of Harry’s neck before pressing small kisses to it, like this whole thing wasn’t a crazy idea,  maybe just a dream because it felt like one for Harry, who traced patterns along the back of Liam’s neck before tilting his head to the side to give Liam more access.

It was all too much and not enough.

Harry’s hands roamed over Liam’s back, reveling in the pressure of the boy’s body on top of his, his head a mess of LiamLiamLiam and MoreMoreMore. He’s not sure when things changed, the power shift took him by surprise, but when Liam’s crotch rubbed against his--oh. He’d missed that.

Liam’s hands made their way down his back and brought them even closer together.

“Can I suck you off?” Liam’s voice husky and eager; how could Harry have said no? Liam's erection dug into his hip as he bit his shoulder before he kissed his way down Harry's chest.

A laugh built inside him, because Liam had just offered a ghost a blowjob, but then Harry was dragged partly off the couch, Liam on his knees, hand wrapped around Harry’s dick, staring Harry down as if to ask "is this okay?"  

"That'd be nice, yeah."

Liam rolled his eyes, took Harry in his hand, pumping him a few times before he leaned down to take Harry in his mouth. His thumbs pressed into Harry’s hips, trying to keep him down, and Harry complied. He focused on the way Liam’s tongue ran on the underside of his cock, how the hairs on his arm stood up; more than anything, the feel of the couch under him stabilized him, helped him keep from bucking up when Liam took him deeper and used his fingers to tease him further, brushing lightly against his balls. The way Liam seemed to lean into his touch when he grabbed onto his hair, taking it as a cue to hum around his cock and overwhelm Harry more was crushing. It was all passion and whining, the way Liam scratched at his thighs while Harry was powerless to do more than whimper.

His eyes refused to stay open but he made himself, he had to see Liam beneath him, because if this was his only chance to do this, he had to make the most it, needed to memorize how Liam looked with hollowed out cheeks.

“Liam, look at me.” His voice was ruined, hardly above a whisper, but Liam met his eyes nonetheless, cheeks flushed and pink, eyes slightly watering from straining to take all of Harry at once and just--it was beautiful. He was gorgeous with his brown eyes that saw right through Harry, the eager way he bobbed his head, like he couldn’t get enough of Harry, and Harry wanted to give him more and more (maybe give him everything).

Liam took his hand off Harry, a protest escaping his lips before Harry saw Liam tugging at himself, movements fueled with desperation that led to him relaxing his mouth around his cock, spreading the precum that had gathered at the head before pulling off completely, like Harry wasn’t even there--but he didn’t mind, too captivated by the way Liam bit his lip, head tossed back, coming with a groan that was mixed with Harry’s name.

Liam looked so completely fucked out and satisfied when he began to lick at Harry’s head again, a small smile playing on his lips while he brought a hand up to stroke his cock gently, a bit too slowly for Harry, whose only thought at that moment was “I need to come and I need it now,”

“Fuck babe just, do something, I fucking need--”

With a devious smirk on his face and an even more dubious sounding chuckle, Liam practically lunged at Harry, jerking him off with unabashed intensity as he sucked a mark on his neck.

"Come for me baby, let me see how pretty you look," Liam growled.

That was all it took for Harry to spill over Liam's hand, body shaking, oversensitive, sated.

“Liam, that was--”

Amazing, he thought to himself, paying close attention to the way Liam grinned from ear to ear as he tried to clean himself up a bit with a nearby sweater. Life changing, maybe, because if it weren’t for Liam, Harry would never have been able to stabilize himself and that--

The whole notion of impermanent manifestation revolved around the idea that it served to scare away those who get in the way of your quest to solve your unfinished business. The Handbook explained it but Harry usually shrugged it off, wrote it off as another ghost trick he’d never put to use, and he was fine with the way his death was going--until Liam.

And yeah, Harry liked Liam, liked the way he’d come over and pretend to work while Harry failed miserably at scaring him away, liked his voice whenever Harry did something that freaked him out, the way his eyes widened and he gulped down a small “No, I’m fine” before forcing a smile; Harry liked Liam and Liam liked Harry in a way that meant he’d need to say something soon because the silence was borderline awkward now and the worry on Liam’s face as he sat on the couch, pressing into Harry’s side, made Harry feel like a dick for essentially ignoring the person he’d just had sex with.

So many things raced through Harry’s head, ranging from fondness to terror, and Liam just sat there, sleepy grin on his face as he settled in to cuddle him, body warm and relaxed, like things would somehow change and Harry would be his and--

“Harry?”

Harry didn’t hear what Liam said after that.

 

 

 

The walls of his room were still the same as when he’d first moved in to the house. There were posters of bands, some old classic movies, photos of his family held up by tacks near his mirror, but everything was older, like death had gotten to them too. Harry shook his head, hoped maybe that would explain why exactly he’d convinced himself that moment with Liam wasn’t a good thing. Liam made him feel like he was a nineteen year old boy with blood still running through his veins.

Thick layers of dust covered his mirror, blurring images nearly to the point of being unrecognizable, and no matter how much Harry tried to clean it, the mess would gather again in a matter of hours. When he looked in it, he didn’t recognize himself.

“Harry, open up!”

Three quick knocks on his door, the shuffling of feet outside his door, palpable desperation from Liam.

Harry shrugged it off, channeling energy from somewhere, (though, now that he was back to normal, he looked and felt the same, or rather didn’t feel anything physically anymore, so he wasn’t tired), sliding the bed over in front of the door--a makeshift barricade to protect him from something.

“We need to talk, don’t we? Just, Harry please.”

Nothing.

“I’m sorry.” Liam’s voice cracked and Harry felt whatever heart he had break.

Then he was gone, and Harry was still in the middle of his room, frozen in more ways than one.

 

[Liam’s pov]

 

Four glasses of Whiskey, three cigarettes, and a weird BBC space special on television all served to distract Liam from the fact that he’d have to show Mr. Malik and Mr. Horan around Harry’s house tomorrow.

He’d done a good job of avoiding the place since--well since he’d had the strange misfortune of hooking up with a ghost only to be left alone on the couch. (Is it still the walk of shame when the other person is dead?)

Liam figured that it would only happen to him, that falling for someone you can’t have held an entirely new meaning for him, and now he had the rest of his life to go through, knowing that a curly haired spirit who only tolerated him on a good day was the closest he’d ever been to something real.

So yeah, the whiskey burned going down but since Harry got off scott free, no feelings hurt, Liam deserved to hurt double.

A little before midnight, Liam was bored. He’d been half watching some Geordie Shore marathon as he drank, which sparked the brilliant idea that it was imperative he call Louis and discuss this with him. Thankfully Louis was a bit drunk too, having gone out with Eleanor and Stan for drinks after a long day at the office.

“You’ve impressed me with your dedication, Liam.” Louis hiccuped, followed by a giggle that should have made the statement seem insincere but made Liam smile instead.

“Thought I was spending too much time on the project for you to notice me, honestly.” Liam took a long sip because the memory of Harry still stung and well, the whiskey was delicious. Win win. Numb the pain with good booze.

“Nah, the first is always a big deal.”

Louis cursed, the sound of glass shattering in the background.

“It’s haunted.”

A soft laugh rang in his ears, and he half expected to have to explain what he meant to Louis.

“Don’t believe Stan, Li.”

“I’ve seen him. He’s cute--really cute.”

The part of his brain that controlled his common sense seemed to be shut off.

There’s a beat before Louis replied.

“I saw him once too.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t want to believe it. I was there right after the house was signed over to my company, and from the foot of the stairs there was just this, like, fog, only it had curly hair and looked like a grumpy cat.”

And Liam, there’d be no way not to smile at that.

“Yeah, that’s Harry. We talk.”

Even all the alcohol in the world couldn’t make this conversation any easier.

“Is he nice?”

Liam frowned at that. It wasn’t that Harry wasn’t not nice it just--

“He’s something.”

Louis hummed in reply. He had turned the tv on now and Liam was pretty sure The Notebook was on.

“I’m uh--I’m angry at him. He just.. left. He got me  hopeful and excited and I fucking believed and poof. Gone. Without so much as a goodbye.”

Even to Liam, the whole thing sounded ridiculous. He brought the blanket closer to him, worked hard to ignore the fact that it was the same one he’d always taken to see Harry, calculating a plan to blame the whole conversation on a scary movie marathon and nearly fatal doses of alcohol. Drugs, if needed.

After two minutes, Louis still hadn’t answered, and Liam panicked. He opened his mouth to ask if Louis was still on the line when--

“I guess even dead men are awful then, huh, mate?”

Yeah--Louis was all right. Liam laughed, the first genuine laugh since that night with Harry, whispered a good night for Liam, falling asleep on the couch without bothering to clean up after himself.

 

 

 

The garden was covered with a thin layer of snow, and the sky was as grey as… grey skies. Liam hadn’t had his morning tea yet, so poetics were out of the question. Two men stood near the door, the one who had a head of bleached blonde hair tugged on the sleeve of a thinner, slightly taller man, who he recognized from a recent magazine article. Zayn Malik had been granted some sort of graphic design award, and his boyfriend Niall was just along for the ride, it seemed.

From afar, they exuded happiness and a rather large part of Liam hated them for it.

Still, he went up to them. He’d get this over with, go home, find a channel playing Titanic, and cuddle up with a tub of ice cream. (And if Baileys made their way into said ice cream, no one had to know.)

“Hello, Mr. Malik, Mr. Horan, my name’s Liam. I’ll be showing you this fine home today.” He rehearsed his lines on his way over, but no matter what, he couldn’t find the strength to make them sound genuine.

Zayn had his arms wrapped around Niall’s waist the entire time, hardly paying attention to the technical explanations of the lease Liam had to go over as they walked into the house. Niall was his world, it was obvious in the way he could hardly keep his eyes off of him, how he nodded along without hesitation whenever Niall spoke and yeah, it was love.

When they stepped into the parlor, Zayn grimaced as Niall shivered, clasping his hands together and rubbing them for a bit of warmth.

“It’s freezing in here, isn’t it?”

Liam blanched. Loud stomps came from what he presumed was the attic, and an angry Harry wasn’t in his plans for today.

“Is that a cat? Are there animals here?” Zayn sounded annoyed as he checked his phone, but Niall jabbed him his side as gently as possible, and the moment was so intimate Liam felt sick.

“Uh, no, we’re still working on fixing some of the pipes. And the heat, yeah. Should be done soon!”

Harry’s laughed echoed throughout the house and Liam’s entire life had become a cliche.

 

After an intense tour of the first floor, Niall deemed it perfect and with a “lived in feel” and Zayn wanted to make Niall happy. On the second floor, though, things got more interesting. Harry locked some door, made them stick, opened and closed windows, once even tapped Niall directly on the shoulder. (Maybe Harry had gotten better at the whole solidifying thing, and Liam’s not bitter about that at all.)

Niall whispered in Zayn’s ear as the three got closer to the end of the hall, where Harry’s room was. To say Zayn appeared displeased was an understatement.

“Niall’s a bit scared of this place, Liam. We love the house itself, but there’s something off, isn’t there?”

If Liam had any sense of self preservation, he’d keep his mouth shut and never mention Harry fucking Styles to his customers.

“Um.. it’s not bad at all, I promise you.”

The couple nodded like they understood, though Liam caught the way Zayn stood even closer to Niall, arm around his shoulders.

The door to Harry’s room is stuck, much like he expected. He tugged on it a few more times until it finally gave in and--

The room is so Harry that Liam smiled before reminding himself that he felt mad at him not twelve hours ago.

Harry’s arms are crossed over his chest and he’s frowning rather unattractively, but Niall and Zayn didn’t notice as they stepped into the room.  

Zayn broke the silence first. “We’ll have to throw away all this hipster stuff, won’t we, Ni? Look, there’s a freaking record player on the desk!”

Harry growled, instantly appearing in front of Zayn.

“I’m not a fucking hipster, jackass.”

Niall ran over to Zayn, casting a look at Liam that said yeah, they heard that.

“Did you say something, pal?”

“Yeah, he said get out.”

(Liam had never been more sure that the only unfinished business Harry had left was to ruin his life.)

Liam cleared his throat because he really had no idea what to do.

“I’m not saying anything, I swear.”

“Zayn, this place is haunted.”

Silence.

“I love it!”

As he turned to face his boyfriend, Liam caught a glimpse of Harry. It might have made him feel better if he looked worse, but it was the same as always, nothing to suggest Liam had made sort of impact on him.

Zayn deadpanned. “Are you sure?”

Liam held his breath but Niall jumped up excitedly, talking about how they’d leave the room as is, something about wanting to make friends with the spirits that inhabited the place, while Zayn gave him a hug, mouthing “help” to Liam.

He shrugged. That wasn’t his problem.

 

Two hours later, the lease had been signed.

Harry followed Liam to the front gate instead of just to the door but he paid no attention to him, or tried not to, ignoring the way his eyes pleaded at him to stay, not answering when he finally whispered the apology Liam had only dreamt about until now.

 

[Harry’s pov]

 

Four months after the invasion of his house, Harry learned of the physical impossibility that was hating Niall Horan. Zayn and him had moved in, redecorating the entire house except for his room, opening dusty curtains, fixing small cracks in the walls and just--adding life.

Harry pretended to hate it, but if anything, it healed a part of him that had been broken by Liam leaving. (Which was his fault but, whatever.)

So months later and Harry hadn’t been able to do much to scare them away, other than annoy Zayn into chain smoking cigarettes; that bothered Harry because Zayn could die from those, and Niall loved him too much to ever be able to handle that.

Okay, Harry kind of liked them. A lot. Niall had a laugh that resonated in everything and Zayn chilled out around him, and their love was so strong that Harry felt it in his own being. It was a bit too much.

He stuck to his room more now, avoided the Handbook updates on crossing over. One time Niall barged into his room, laptop in hand, asking if he’d ever seen the UK version of Being Human because “I swear, you’ll absolutely love it!”

Nothing about it was normal but that was okay.

Harry was okay.

 

The last time Harry had a dream had been the night before his accident. He’d dreamt of being in a famous boyband, making millions of money and having tons of followers on Twitter--rubbish, basically. But when Liam’s voice came into the house, he thought maybe it’d become possible for ghosts to dream.

Harry had never been rude, so he totally did not eavesdrop, not even when he heard Liam mutter a, “I just need to see him for a bit.”

Not listening.

He also wasn’t eavesdropping when he heard Niall tell Liam that Harry wasn’t a bother, but some kind of friend, and that he was usually a “laugh” except when he was cranky and kept them up all night playing sad songs.

The door remained unlocked, since Niall had this habit of whining until Harry gave in and let him in. Liam hadn’t changed, not really, though he had a bit more facial hair than before, and maybe his shoulders drooped down. He made his way directly to Harry’s bed, laying down and pulling his phone out, ignoring him almost completely.

“Get off my bed.”

He flew over to Liam, letting himself miss him.

Liam sat up, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m the one who should be mad, here. A ghost used me for a one night stand. Talk about a blow to my ego.”

Harry wished he was joking.

“You made me materialize!”

“Is that bad?”

He shrugged. “I never had a reason to try before.”

 

Liam started talking about his job, how much praise Louis had given him for selling the house, how he’d started working out a gym regularly in an attempt to “spice up his daily routine” (“Liam, who even talks like that? You’re so boring, mate"), glancing over to see if Harry would disappear again, fear at trusting him again, and--

“I’m not coming back to life.”

Liam nodded, lips together in a straight line, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“I can’t visit anymore.”

“I’m not finding my unfinished business.”

For the first time, Liam beamed at him, lips tilting upwards.

“Didn’t think you would.”

He got up, straightening out his outfit, then pulled out a piece of paper that he dropped on Harry’s bed. He got all the way to the door, eyes meeting Harry’s, something like butterflies building up in his stomach.

“If you need a new house to haunt, find me?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's hard to write happy things when literally half of your ship is dead, innit?  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
